


Bloodtide Receded

by Tyranidlord



Series: Bloodtide Rising [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Linking Bloodtide Rising to Skyrim, Minor Character(s), One Shot, Opening of Skyrim, Potential of more if I get distracted, Skyrim Main Quest, Skyrim: Unbound, Thalmor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranidlord/pseuds/Tyranidlord
Summary: “Ulfric?!” he breathed. “They managed to catch Ulfric?”There was a clank and scrape of metal and the Captain nodded. “The General managed to ambush the Stormcloaks near Darkwater Crossing.”“And we’re here because?”There was another nod, but this time directed to the burly smith of their cohort scraping a whetstone along an enormous battleaxe. He sat, whistling a depressive funeral dirge with a blackened hood draped over a knee as the tune rose in time with the scrapes of metal.The chill that coursed through Hadvar this time was not born of the mountains.----------The Civil war has been raging anew, but for the sleepy village of Helgen in the Jeral Mountains such conflict seems far away from sight and mind.But the prophecies of the Elder Scrolls have a habit of involving even the most unlikely of people and places. On a chilly morning on the 17th of Last Seed the tiny hamlet will play host to not only the leaders of both sides of the civil war, but an individual who is simultaneously entrapped by fate and walking his own path...





	Bloodtide Receded

Helgen

17 Last Seed

4E201

 

It was always cold in the mountains. A deep seated chill that froze the morning mists into spectral wraiths that moaned their displeasure through the rocky gullies and towering heights. To the south, Pale Pass and the stabbing finger of snow covered rock of Goblin Mountain awaited those who travelled between the provinces. With summer waning however it would not be long before that passage south was also consumed by winter like all the others.

 Hadvar shivered, feeling the breeze across his flesh and cursing whichever Legion paper-shuffler had come to the decision to issue the legionaries in Skyrim Cyrodillic uniforms. While suitable for the more southern holds and areas around Riften and Falkreath, the thin layers of leather and metallic strips did little more than creak and sway in the breeze. He desperately wished for an additional layer or two of furs to fend off the morning chill but instead chose to force his complaining body to stand still. As the minutes passed he concentrated on feeling the throbbing of his heart in his chest as it coursed his veins with his Nordic heritage, pumping warmth to his chilled extremities.

 “They’re late.” One of the nearby legionaries muttered under his breath, his breath misting into existence with each syllable.

 “It is a bit of a climb through the pass to Ivarstead.” Another replied, scratching and looking as miserable as the rest of them felt.

 “Hold your tongues!” the voice snapped through them and they all perceptibly stiffened as engrained obedience from hours of drills made them react without thinking.

 The dark-skinned Captain of their detachment stomped down in front of the tiny row of legionaries, staring at them balefully with the jagged wound in her cheek clear to see. A veteran in the war and with the rich Yokudan heritage in her veins; Captain Toninne was not one that any of them wanted to cross. They were all little more than fresh recruits so green they could be mistaken for Spriggans. As such she intimidated them enough through sheer force of personality without needing to fall back on her authority.

 “Hadvar, front and centre.”

 Dressed in full legion plate and the thick hide of a snow wolf wrapped around her shoulders, the Captain glanced over the Nordic Legionary stopping to attention before her. Usually not one for drill and formalities, it was only the presence of the group of riders a few dozen metres up the street that had left them all on edge. Hadvar was a few short centimetres taller, but dressed in the thick overlapping steel plates and wearing the thick horsehair plume of a Centurion, Toninne left him cast in shadow.

 A sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal was thrust towards him, both sitting on top of what appeared to be a rectangular plate taken from a nearby tavern. “Their _Lordships_ have deigned us worthy enough to be provided a list of our expected guests.” The acid in her tone as she spoke of the Thalmor at her back dripped from every word. “When they arrive, you will need to cross each name off the list to ensure we got them all.”

 With a glance Hadvar felt his guts turn to ice, looking over the list and seeing more than one name that he recognised. It was the first on the list that held his attention.

 “ _Ulfric_?!” he breathed. “They managed to catch Ulfric?”

 There was a clank and scrape of metal the Captain nodded. “The General managed to ambush the Stormcloaks near Darkwater Crossing.”

 “And we’re here because?”

 There was another nod, but this time directed to the burly smith of their cohort scraping a whetstone along an enormous battleaxe. He sat, whistling a depressive funeral dirge with a blackened hood draped over a knee as the tune rose in time with the scrapes of metal.

 The chill that coursed through Hadvar this time was not born of the mountains.

 A horn echoed through the village, and everyone stiffened at the haunting portent. The sounds of hooves could be heard over the moans of the wind and the sounds of a village eking its existence in the rocky heights of the Jerrals. Little more than a border post that had grown like a weed, Helgen was a backwater and was utterly insignificant in the face of the Empire and Tamriel. Hadvar realised with a start that for this reason alone was why the village had been chosen as a rendezvous.

 As he moved out into the tiny square between the pair of mouldering towers that overlooked the collection of huts and buildings, the sounds of hooves and the squealing of poorly greased axles made themselves felt. The temperatures of the pass would have done nothing of benefit for the wagons that had made the journey, causing wheels to slip, rubbed tallow to harden and crack and the oil coating the metal hinges and axels to wear away. Each pulled by a pair of northern bred horses, they filled the air with hot humid gouts of steaming breath that were snatched away by the breeze. Each of the half dozen wagons were all open topped, crammed with bodies of souls consumed with dejection and full knowledge of what fate awaited them.

 There was little conversation amongst the prisoners, only a handful muttering amongst themselves as they looked over the collection of legionaries and other assorted dignitaries that awaited them. The black hooded smith with the two handed axe standing before the block of wood did little for their spirits. There was determination and hatred burning in their eyes, and lips were pressed closed in grimaces of resentment and attempts to stave off the bitter wind. They were cold, hungry and covered with various injuries and livid bruises from their capture, but nearly every single one of them glared with a frightful loathing at the collection of mounted Elves astride their thoroughbreds.

 If the robed and armoured Elves noticed the expressions of hatred sent in their direction by the captured stormcloaks, or even the handful of Legionaries they did not notice. Staring ahead and exchanging words with the immaculately dressed General in his polished plate and robes they ignored everyone, choosing to remain aloof and haughty as only an elf could be.

 “General Tullius sir!” one of the senior legionaries called out, thumping his fist against his breastplate in salute. “The headsman is waiting!”

 The aged general turned, nodded once to the younger solider and pulled his horse away from the ranks of silent elves, choosing to show his own measure of displeasure at their presence. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

 As the wagons passed through the town there was a ripple of commotion, the mood darkening as though the sun had been hidden by the clouds. Several of the locals ushered their children inside, glaring at those responsible for bringing the pall of death to their community. Windows were shuttered, doors _thunked_ closed as they were barred and locked and what was once a vibrant community of life and colour suddenly felt as empty as a tomb and as welcoming as a graveyard.

 Clattering and squealing with protesting axles, the wagons were pulled to a stop in the tiny square as each of the drivers pulled back the reins and soothingly called the horses to stop. In a row of wood, leather and horseflesh they rolled to a halt, jostling some of their passengers when a driver pulled a little too hard.

 Captain Toninne stomped her way along the row of parked wagons, the expression on her face as dark as her skin. “Get those Prisoner’s out of the carts!” the snap of authority in her tone sending the huddled legionaries into action almost as much as the gestures she made. “Move it!”

 “Why are we stopping?” a voice called from within the press of bodies, and Hadvar began looking over the group as they clambered down awkwardly due to their bonds.

 "Why do you think?” another voice, deeper and less filled with panic rumbled and for a moment Hadvar locked eyes with the man, feeling the surge of familiarity between them.

 The captured stormcloak scowled as he beheld Hadvar in his Legion armour. “End of the line.” He muttered, mostly to himself. There was a moment of anger in the ice blue eyes that was quickly crushed aside. “ _Let's go_. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.”

 One by one the prisoners dismounted from the backs of the wagons. Some dropped with a lithe ease and others needing some assistance from legionaries to clamber down from a combination of their bonds, lack of dexterity or by just wanting to resist in some small manner.

 Skinny and somewhat malnourished, one of the prisoners looked around with the appearance of a skooma user. “No! Wait!” We're not rebels!” He stammered, twisting in his bonds as a pair of legionaries grabbed him and hauled him bodily off the back of the wagon.

 “Face your death with some courage, _thief_.” The stormcloak muttered venomously, looking at the wide-eyed expression of the ragged prisoner with complete distaste.

 “You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!”

 The loud voice of Captain Toninne from behind his back made Hadvar start for a moment as she suddenly bellowed out further commands, ordering the miserable group to step towards the executioner’s block when their name was called. With a quick look and a nod in Hadvar’s direction he cleared his throat, raised the list in front of him and read the first name.

 “Ulfric Stormcloak,” His mouth was suddenly dry, feeling parched as he choked out the words. “Jarl of Windhelm.”

 The chorus of calls from the prisoners echoed through the village and several of them stamped their feet in honour to man who stepped forward. As the only member in the group who had not been stripped of his possessions, the Jarl towered over nearly all the men at his back and the legionaries to his front. Dressed in rich robes and furs for travelling, he cut a rich figure that looked somewhat constrained and unnatural, an appearance that wasn’t helped by the thick cloth gag stuffed into and around his mouth. A body hardened and tempered in the flames of war, it was almost as though his flesh protested the lack of armour surrounding it and yearned for fighting again.

 “It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!”

 “Quiet!” Snarled a legionary, slamming a fist into the kidney of one of the stormcloak’s who had called out.

 "Ralof of Riverwood.”

 Spitting at the feet of the legionary who had hit him, Ralof glared at the plated soldier for a heartbeat before striding forward. His eyes were locked into Hadvar’s for every step of the way as he followed the footsteps of his commander. Where there once had been comradery and friendship of those who had grown up together; there was nothing more than simmering hatred that only a civil war could infuse into hearts and minds.

 “Lokir of Rorikstead."

 The twitching, fearful weed of a man looked about with dawning horror on his face as his name was called. "No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

 Shrinking away from the legionaries advancing on him he tried to hide within the group of prisoners. Pushing stormcloaks aside the pair of armoured soldiers reached to drag him to his place in the line, but as they reached for him he broke into a run borne of desperation.

 Shouldering aside a legionary who tried and failed to grasp the skinny thief he continued to run, breath steaming in the frigid air and legs pumping as he ran in the first direction he found himself facing.

 Captain Toninne slapped the legion drill cane into the palm of her hand with her face flushing in blinding rage. “ ** _Halt!_** ”

 He didn’t even slow down or hesitate, twisting and weaving through the press until breaking free of the legionaries ranks and reaching an open portion of street. “You're not going to kill me!”

 The murmuring of the prisoners grew in volume as the Lokir sprinted with all the speed his legs could manage, slapping the road with bare feet and ignoring the pain as sharp stones left him cut and bleeding.

 Shouldering aside a pair of legionaries who had stopped and began watching the prisoner running away, Toninne swore and looked about the group. Fully laden in armour, leather and furs there was no way that any of the soldiers would be capable of catching a man dressed in rags and fuelled by adrenaline.

 “Archers!” she snapped, turning and watching as a pair of the chainmailed foresters began fumbling with their quivers. A bow was raised and a string drawn back, and soon the first slap-cracks of bows releasing tension reached everyone’s ears.

 For several moments it appeared as though he would make the safety of the street’s curve and the corners of the buildings hemming it in. The first few arrows skittered across the cobbles or ripped through the air around the fleeing man as nervous fingers snatched at bowstrings. Within metres of perceived safety and a successful escape a goose feathered arrow punched into his ribs between his shoulder blades, plucking him from his feet as though tackled.

 There was a triumphant tone to the captain’s words as she beheld the twitching thief with an arrow lodged in a lung. “Anyone else feel like running?” she called out, ignoring the looks from the prisoners and the legionaries as one of the archers strode over to the wounded man. Coughing a bloody froth from the arrowhead in his lung, he struggled to rise, squirming away from the approaching archer as he drew a dagger from its sheath. A quick, economical stab later and the thief began spasming as his life flowed from the wound in his throat.

 Feeling sickened at the sight, Hadvar brought the list back up before his face as continued reading from the list of names, ticking them off one by one as he went. It was a collection of names made famous in the rebellion, containing over three dozen individuals that included a majority of Ulfric’s commanders and lieutenants. It was a powerful list, but he couldn’t help but feel anger at the elvish trickery and deceit that would lead to the deaths of so many of his kinsmen.

 One by one the captured stormcloaks moved forward, shuffling with dejection or marching with their heads held high and proud as they went to their fate. The growing ranks standing before the chopping block increased, the tension filling the air with an almost palpable sensation that left the skin crawling.

 He reached the end of the list, ticking off the last of the names and quickly counting the thirty-one names. Every man and women had not bothered to hide or to falsify their identities, choosing to step forward with their honour intact rather than resorting to some cheap elfish trick to buy a few more minutes of life.

 With a glance he saw that there was one last individual standing before the wagons, staring at Hadvar with an eyebrow slightly raised.

 “Wait…” The confusion that filled Hadvar for a moment was quickly crushed at the sight of someone not on the list provided by the treacherous elves. Quickly checking it again he sighed to himself. It stood to reason that in such an ambush that everyone who happened to be in the area had been scooped up with the others.

 “You there. Step forward.”

 Without hesitation the prisoner obeyed, striding across the cobblestones to present himself before the young legionary. There was confidence in his step that belied the situation that he found himself in, a deep-seated confidence that was shared with the stormcloak prisoners. This confidence however was not formed from the knowledge of how they would be drinking with their ancestors before the day was out.

 He was tall, not overly so like an Altmer or Nord but was powerfully built. Instead of the brutish strength of the northmen, there was a whipcord strength about him that suggested a dangerous and agile fighter and unlike the other prisoners he was no Nord. With the build of a professional soldier and tanned skin from years in the elements, his home may have been in the south of the Jerals but there was the darkening hints of Redguard blood in his veins. A distant ancestor perhaps; but still giving his skin a healthy, sun kissed appearance of strength and vitality.

 Dressed in rags like most of the other prisoners he stood straight backed and tall, matching Hadvar in his average six foot height. There was a moment of insecurity in Hadvar’s mind as he saw the way the coiled muscles bunched and clenched in the prisoner’s arms, the tell-tale swelling of a shoulder showing an archer’s strength from years drawing a bow.

 The scars however were humbling and a little terrifying. Every inch of his flesh had felt the kiss of a blade or the punch of a dagger or arrow. In places the skin was puckered and raised from where heat and flames had scorched the skin raw, and threading their way up his arms were dozens, if not hundreds of jagged nicks where blades had cut his arms. While having the muscles of an archer, this was not someone who fought from afar. On a bared bicep Hadvar could see the trio of deep burns where someone had pressed a bar of hot metal to seal a set of terrible wounds. The scars may have long since turned white with age, but the wingtips and head of an ancient legion brand poked out from under ruined tissue on the bicep.

 “Who…Who are you?” He asked confusingly, looking at the way that the man stood there, watching with a predatory intensity.

 There was a pause as the prisoner regarded him with the piercing brown depths of his eyes. Despite the injuries and scarring that put even some of the most vaunted Veteran Legionaires of the wars to shame, he looked no more than thirty. The eyes however spoke of experiences and witnessing sights that would quail the hearts of lesser men. There was a depth of age and knowledge of someone many years older than one such as he, and Hadvar involuntarily shivered as though his soul had just been lain open. The scar under his right eye only increased the prisoner’s intimidating presence. Unbidden, the memory of his mother telling him tales sprang into Hadvar’s mind of how the ancient Knightly Orders of the Third Era would gash their cheeks when they pledged their oaths of loyalty.

 For several moments the prisoner seemed deep in thought, looking about the group with all the emotion of someone on an afternoon stroll. There was amusement in the slightly raised corner of his mouth, as though laughing at a joke that only he knew or understood. To the steadily increasing annoyance of both Hadvar and Captain Toninne standing beside him the scarred prisoner remained deep in thought as though considering what name to give them.

 The grin lengthened as he looked over the Legionary and his commanding officer standing in front of him. His face showed infinite amusement that somehow didn’t manage to reach his eyes.

 “Kaius.” He said simply, as though coming to a decision before speaking. “Kaius Treblanus Desin.”


End file.
